Neither Pipes Nor Top Hats
by AdidasandPie
Summary: A collection of drabbles, droubbles, ficlets, etc. for BBC's 'Sherlock'. Non-slash.
1. Obscure

_"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the bell? Who could come tonight? Some friend of yours, perhaps?" _

_ "Except yourself I have none," he answered.- The Five Orange Pips

* * *

_

**Mycroft**

Sherlock was really getting to trust him, then. To send someone else to gather the facts was unknown. Always before it had been Sherlock, and Sherlock only who'd collected the facts. He investigated alone. Yet now he was regularly accompanied. The last two times I'd seen Sherlock, John had been with him. My agent reported that they were often together. And Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He might even enjoy John's company, it seemed.

I didn't know what else to call John, and however impossibly obscure it might seem, I had a sneaking suspicion that my brother had a _friend._


	2. Insane

"'_You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet,' he said… 'He is a little queer in his ideas.'"-STUD

* * *

_

No, the first impression had not been odd enough, he had to go and worsen things by being even _weirder _at their potential new flat than he'd been at their meeting at Bart's. He'd moved in already, it seemed, unless the intricate chemistry set and boxes of books on geology were someone else's.

Sherlock Holmes seemed a bit nervous, like he was actually hoping this would work out. Somehow John had already gotten the impression that Sherlock was not a particularly amicable, and certainly a very cool person. Not one to be nervous.

John looked over the knife he stabbed into the mantelpiece only because of the nearby human skull. This man was ridiculous. Insane.

The very same day John was moving in.

* * *

A/N: Came back from a long weekend to find a slew of alerts and reviews! Obviously, my day was made. Hopefully the updates will be a little more frequent now, but I can't promise much, as school starts in a few days.

The next few chapters will be generally Study In Pink stuff.

I forgot the disclaimer last time (public domain!), but here it is now. I don't own any of these characters.


	3. Brain Without A Heart

"…_sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence."-GREE

* * *

_

The man was ruddy brilliant, but, God was he inconsiderate. Why ask if I'd come if he was just going to abandon me soon as he was done looking at the poor dead woman? It doesn't help, either, when one has a psychosomatic limp and can't get a taxi.

Then, after hobbling down the street in the middle of the night, I get picked up by Lord-knows-who and driven to some warehouse where a tall man asks me to spy on Sherlock for money. When do these things ever happen to normal people?

Never again would I accompany Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

A/N: But we all know that's not quite true...


	4. Experience

"_I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of"-STUD

* * *

_

"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered…What would you say in your last few words?" Sherlock questioned rapidly.

"Please, God, let me live."

Use your imagination." He retorted, waving his hands animatedly.

"I don't have to." And I didn't, for I'd been shot, been on the verge of death. Typhoid had struck after my bullet wound, taking me dangerously close to the end. I'd had the occasion to work out (and practice) what I'd say on my death bed.

Sherlock must've caught my meaning. He lowered his eyes for a moment in realization. A split second later he continued his rapid-fire interrogation, but he watched his words.

* * *

A/N: School's started. _Very_ busy.


	5. Limits

"_"I never get __your limits__, Watson," said he. "There are unexplored possibilities about you."-SUSS

* * *

_

Of course, it was obvious once he'd said it aloud to Lestrade. He always did think better aloud. But he couldn't reveal it to Lestrade, so he made some ridiculous excuse about shock and made his way over to John, fidgeting by the caution tape.

John denied it at first, which was understandable, court was something Sherlock also wished to avoid.

Funny that this man he'd only met two days ago had just possibly saved his life. Found him, that was admirable in itself, and shot that insane cab driver- speaking of…

"Are you all right?" he asked.

John reacted rather calmly, and soldierly, Sherlock supposed, though he sensed a bit of unrest in his voice.

"I mean, you have just killed a man." He added. And they'd given _him_ a blanket! If anyone, _he_ wasn't the one in shock.

John kept his head, though, even 'giggled' with him, absurd as that was, but later Sherlock spied him sitting pensively back at Baker Street staring at the wall. He suspected it was more affecting than John let on. And some small part of him _cared_.


	6. Loyalty

A/N: Mycroft POV, on that warehouse scene from A Study In Pink.  


* * *

"_But you, Watson"- he stopped his work and took his old friend by the shoulders- "I've hardly seen you in the light yet."- LAST

* * *

_

'Very loyal, very quickly' was a fairly accurate characterization, it seemed. I sensed a clearly set trust this fellow had in my brother. Either Sherlock had suddenly turned a new social leaf or this John Watson was something different, and I very much doubted the former. Sherlock was not one to exactly "reach out".

It gave me some little satisfaction that he'd said no to my offer. Though his loyalty might be blind and unfounded so early, it was loyalty all the same.

Also, he'd refused a seat, besides an obviously painful, if not genuine limp. I wondered at Sherlock that he'd a leave a limping veteran in a unfamiliar city in the middle of the night. Then I considered that he was Sherlock.


	7. Gone

A/N: Let's see...Sherlock POV, from the episode 'The Blind Banker'. I own nothing.

* * *

"_It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more."-HOUN

* * *

_

Gone. Everyone who had seen the cipher was dead now, John had most certainly seen it, it was scrawled all over their walls and windows; now John was gone. Inevitably, then, that meant that John was, or would soon be, dead

Where had he gone? Kidnapped. Sarah too? Must be.

Quickly, now, John couldn't be dead. Not dead yet.

Right?

By god, he'd better not be. That paint would be hell to get off the walls and Sherlock wasn't about to pay for it all on his own.


	8. Regret

_"Good old Watson!" -LAST

* * *

_

He saw Sherlock poised to take the pill, the cabbie sneering beside him. Sherlock couldn't hear him call through the layers of brick, and John wouldn't be able to run to the other building fast enough. He shot the cabbie.

It had not been long since he'd been in war, but it had been long enough, and John collapsed into a half sitting position under the window after he saw the cabbie fall with his bullet lodged in his chest. Apparently he was more traumatized than he thought, for the whole experience of shooting someone unsettled him more than he would've thought. Not that he'd put much thought into it in the moments before he'd pulled the trigger. His mind had been on Sherlock eying that pill.

He gathered himself and fled the building, because for something he couldn't quite put his finger on, he didn't want Holmes to see it had been him. It was his instinct to not let anyone see he'd killed the man; John had no intention of getting into legal trouble.

He was shocked, disconcerted, unsettled, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it one bit.


	9. Care

A/N: A proper drabble! :)

* * *

"_I'll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"-LADY

* * *

_

Of course he cared about human lives. His greatest failure was to not be able to save a client from that abyss of death. He cared so much that he had to set it aside, along with any other emotions, to be able to properly solve a case. Emotions were destructive, not conducive, to the reasoning process.

The death of the old woman had been disastrous to him. An old woman, no less! If he had stopped the bomb a few moments earlier- if he had curbed her descriptions of Moriarty more effectively-

He wondered, had it been his fault?


	10. A Respectable Citizen

"'_Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jimmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. S. H.'_

_It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through the dim, fog-draped streets."-BRUC

* * *

_

**John**

I learned quickly that questions directed at Sherlock were futile unless he had given express permission that they could be posed. Armed with this knowledge, when I received a text informing me to bring a flashlight, crowbar, chisel, and my army-issue gun to an Italian place on Gloucester Road, I didn't even think of sending back an inquiring reply, nor did I hesitate to follow his odd instructions, just stuffed the required things in my coat and headed out.

I could only hope that no watchful police officer would pay much attention to the odd bulge in my jacket.


	11. Smile

"_My companion __smile__d an enigmatical __smile"-STUD

* * *

_

Mrs. Hudson fancied she'd never seen Sherlock Holmes smile. She'd seen him smirk at the poor investigators from Scotland Yard, she'd seen him turn his mouth corners upwards in greeting, and she'd seen him grimace that cold, calculating expression that attempted to imitate a smile, but didn't get it quite right. When people smiled, their faces warmed and they brightened. Sherlock couldn't get the warming part right. It was as if he knew exactly how to arrange his face, but he didn't understand that it went beyond the limits of social etiquette. . Sherlock never smiled.

Then John came along.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for being so neglecting of this. I'd like to say that things will become less busy soon, but it wouldn't be the truth.


	12. Polite

_"By gosh! I'd teach him better manners if I caught him at it."- VALL

* * *

_John made an effort to be very polite. Perhaps, if he was extra-courteous, it would make up for Sherlock's complete lack of anything resembling manners. John was respectful of the Yarders- he did his best to stay out of their way and not on their nerves. He was already treading on thin ice just by being associated with Sherlock.

But there were some people who didn't deserve even John's affability.

It only took a few times of Anderson murmuring "idiot" at the back of Sherlock's head for John to accidentally trip him as he walked by a particularly filthy puddle.

* * *

A/N: I just like the idea of everyone hating Anderson.


	13. Exercise

_There can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast"- BLAC

* * *

_

Sherlock kept the oddest of hours. Sleep seemed to be a foreign thing to him. It took three weeks after I moved in for me to even see him take a nap. He was always up before me in the morning and went to bed after me in the evening/

It was no uncommon occurrence for me to awake and find him nowhere about the flat, with no sign of where he was or where he had gone. Therefore, it was no big surprise for me to have him burst in, red-faced, midway through my breakfast one morning.

"Where've you been?" I asked, munching.

He paused, breathing heavily, and ruminating.

"Exercising." he stated conclusively, then rushed up the stairs towards my room.

"Would you like some breakfast?" I called weakly after him. Obviously, no answer. I hadn't heard of him ever exercising, though he was fit, but I dismissed his reply as a component his odd behavior.

Within a minute there was a rude, hasty knock at the door. I got up and went to answer it, and found two large, animus, unfriendly-looking men at the door.

One stepped forward. "Is there a Sherlock Holmes here?" he asked.

I gulped.

* * *

A/N: A droubble this time. We're moving up :)


	14. Undesirable Characters

A/N: At the request of IreneNorton, a continuation of the last.

"_Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience."- DYIN

* * *

_

I only needed one look at the two menacing and very large men on the threshold to answer "No," and promptly shut the door.

I like to think that I am a stolid man, yet I also know that I am a smart man, and in light of the latter I locked the sitting room door and ran upstairs after Sherlock, where he was sitting placidly in my chair.

"What _are you doing?_" I hissed under my breath, as if the ruffians downstairs could hear me.

I assume that the face he gave me was supposed to be an innocent one, but it hardly worked in that situation.

"Sherlock, I know they're down there!"

He sighed. "I suppose we'll have to meet with them." He stood up and made his way downstairs.

"Are you _mad?_" I whispered, yet I found myself following him down the stairs nonetheless.

Sherlock Holmes opened the door where the two man still stood, looking perhaps even angrier.

"How may I be of service, gentlemen?" Sherlock said, opening the door with a sweeping, welcoming arm gesture.

"I think you know, Mr. Holmes," one said, cracking his knuckles. I felt my stomach clench.

Sherlock nonchalantly picked up the fire poker from the grate. He began to rattle off deductions about the two men.

"Not sure about that. But I do happen to know that you work in an automobile factory, where you oversee a depressingly small amount of people for the time you've worked there. You have a wife and a small child, who you might take care not to influence with this sort of thing. You play a stringed instrument as a hobby, but very well. You went to a movie last night, but haven't changed clothes since then."

The man looked surprised, then angry. He advanced further toward us.

"Sherlock," I muttered, "Are you sure this is a good tactic?"

He paid me no attention, but moved on to the next man.

"You, sir, will receive that letter you've been hoping for within the next week."

In the meantime, the first man had reached Sherlock and now snatched the poker from his hands. I picked up a chair and raised it, ready to use it if need be.

The man took the stolen poker and began to bend it, grunting and sweating a bit. "I don't appreciate cheek, Mr. Holmes." He handed the poker back to Sherlock.

Sherlock, in turn, took the poker and, in a feat of incredibly surprising strength, bent it back. I felt my eyes widen.

"Kindly shut the door on your way out." he said.

By some miracle no fight occurred and the men left, mostly placidly.

I was astounded.

Sherlock looked over. "You can put the chair down, John."

* * *

A/N: Both the poker incident and the chair are shamelessly stolen from canon.


	15. Detectives

"_I had no idea such individuals existed outside of stories"-STUD

* * *

_

In the early days of my association with Sherlock Holmes, I was never entirely sure about his occupation. Even after our conversation in the cab I was uncertain. 'Consulting detective' was such an obscure profession.

Once I had endeavored to clear things up.

"Are you something like Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin, then?" I asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "I should hope not. Quite the inferior fellow, in my opinion.

I frowned. Dupin had been one of my favorite characters as a child.

"Gaboriau's Leqoc?"

"Certainly not!" He looked offended.

"What are you, then?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."


	16. Imagination

A/N: For 'The Great Game', when John is sent to investigate the television hostess's death, starting with her brother.

* * *

_"Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with **imagination** he might rise to great heights in his profession."- SILV

* * *

_Sherlock was impressed with John.

He hadn't expected much when he'd sent him to investigate the brother. All he'd anticipated to collect was a few facts that might help him refine his theory. What he'd least expected was for John to form his _own_ theory, and much less that it would be a good one. The bit about the cat, though entirely impossible and completely incorrect, was actually _good_. He'd known John was smart, but perhaps he was also picking up some detective skills. That the theory had been so obscure was even better yet- it took imagination for such a theory, and imagination was imperative in detective work. Even the way he'd handled the thing- signaling Sherlock to blind the brother with picture flashes while he smelt the cat- it was all very workmanlike.

It didn't make sense, but Sherlock was proud.


	17. Understood

A/N: A very quickly-written (60 seconds, as per the "oneword" requirements) drabble based on the prompt "understood" in an attempt to get some creative juices flowing. If anyone has any ideas, or prompts, or the like, I'd love to have some.  


* * *

"'_I should be very glad of a little __assistance__.'_

'_We all need help sometimes,' said I." -SIGN

* * *

_

Sherlock was understood so very little. It annoyed him. Really, what was so difficult to understand about how a woman's pinky toenail was surely and completely connected to the death of her mother in an airplane accident?

John wasn't brilliant. He was smart, certainly; above average, most definitely, but he was not on Sherlock's level. He didn't understand Sherlock's deductions any more than Lestrade or any other one of those idiots did.

But there were some things, like when the woman whose mother had died in the airplane started to bawl on Sherlock's shoulder, that he understood so much better.


	18. Time

_A/N: kiwismakemehappy gave me the lovely prompt of "time", which is so versatile a word that I may use it again as a prompt. This is the first one that came to mind.

* * *

_

Sherlock didn't have time for fools or imbeciles. He was constantly moving quickly, swiftly, without regard to whoever was trying to catch up. He recognized that time was a precious thing, and must be carried out to its full potential.

He didn't take the time to fully explain his deductions to baffled clients or inspectors. It wasted time, and if they were unable to figure it out for themselves, then they probably didn't need (or deserve) to know.

But somehow he didn't mind rambling off exceedingly long explanations to John when John asked or was confused. He'd do that anytime.


	19. Gifts

A/N: Had intended this to be a oneshot, but I didn't like it much so it's been moved here.

* * *

_"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth! how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."-SIGN

* * *

_

John remembered the first time they'd gotten into a fight. Or, rather, had been forced into it. They were on their way home after inspecting a certain grocery shop for its stock of fresh fish, apparently an important factor in the investigation. Sherlock was confident that he was nearly to the conclusion of the case and that he only needed some confirming evidence to bring the felons to light.

It was dark, for night had fallen since they'd gone in the grocery. John hadn't the slightest trepidation, as London was no buzzing hive of criminals (despite that he'd been awoken to just how many criminals _were_ out there by working with Sherlock), and besides, he was capable of defending himself should any fool try to take advantage of the dark.

Then he was grabbed by the neck and whisked into the nearby alley with no warning. He was flung into the wall, which he used to brace himself as Sherlock landed beside him. John gathered his wits quickly and looked out at the imposing group circling them.

It was a villainous gang, the kind John thought only existed in films or television programs. They even looked the part- mangy, dirty, and greasy.

John wasn't the type to shy away from a fight, but he was literally outnumbered three to one, and that was only if Sherlock could take three of his own, which John doubted. Sherlock was exceptionally gifted with mental prowess, but John couldn't picture him successfully beating someone up. There was no way they could engage in this fight, then; they'd have to find some other way out of this.

Sherlock tapped John on the arm and gave him a nod, then leapt forward.

John hardly had time to blink before he rushed forward to help.

Hard as he might try, John could not keep up with four opponents. With each fist that hit his head and each elbow that lodged in his stomach, he thought, "Stupid Sherlock, stupid Sherlock."

The best thing to do would be to grab Sherlock and run back to the main street, where he would scream as loud as he could and hope someone would come. He raised his head and opened his eyes against the barrage to find Sherlock. He caught a glimpse of the dark coat swirling about and lunged for it.

As he did, something hard and cold and large struck him across the back of the head. He staggered and stopped his forward progress. His brain tumbled about in his head sickeningly. Another blow with the heavy cold thing on his shoulder blades, and he melted to the ground. His stomach did flips. An instinct yelled at him and he rolled on his back. His adversary brought the weapon down on him once more, grazing his head again as he rolled.

The second after the blow had befallen him a sweeping black object crashed into his attacker and brought him to the ground. John hazily recognized the black shape as Sherlock, with some confusion as the punches Sherlock was landing on the fellow were ferocious and John had thought Sherlock couldn't fight.

Sherlock had to stop beating the man, for the others came up behind him and tore him off. John started to get up to assist Sherlock, but sitting up made him nauseous and standing made everything go black.

When he regained his senses, and he gleaned that it hadn't been very long, for Sherlock was still fighting. His vision was hazy and his head pounded like a hammer. He didn't want to move his arms because it sent brief shots of pain into his upper back.

Sherlock was angry. That surprised John, because Sherlock didn't get angry. John should at least go and calm him down, but he just _couldn't_ stand up. Someone's foot lunged back and caught him in the head again and the last vision he had was of Sherlock, vicious as a bull dog.

* * *

He was at least sitting up when he awoke. Someone had propped him up into a sitting position against the side of the building. He was on the corner of the alley and the main street, he noticed. At least the ground was dry.

Belatedly, his mind registered flashing lights and a wailing siren, which, as soon as he noticed it, wormed its way into his head and bounced around painfully.

And after all that, finally he looked in front of him and saw Sherlock sitting, his legs folded in front of him and a bruise forming above his eye and his hand pressing a red cloth to his nose. Good, thought John. At least he'd come out of that with a few scrapes and cuts. If he had been as perfect at fighting as he was at mental processes, John couldn't have stood it.

"John. John."

Sherlock was saying his name. John raised his eyes from where they had fallen to looking at the stones of the street back up to Sherlock.

"Hullo," he said and the word oozed from his mouth more slowly than he'd said it.

"Are you well?" Sherlock asked, and his forehead was crinkled.

"Probably not," answered John, for he hurt an awful lot and his head was much too foggy.

"How did you-" John asked, but Sherlock finished the rest of the question as if he'd anticipated it.

"A bobby walked by and broke it up. He called reinforcements; obviously, though I assured him it wasn't necessary. We're really just waiting for the ambulance now."

"I could go back to Baker Street," John muttered, thinking of this soft, warm bed.

"As much as I would prefer that," Sherlock replied, "I don't think that's the proper medical procedure. I'm taking you to the hospital. I understand that is the accepted location to go to for such situations."

John acquiesced with a slight nod that induced the world to shake.

"At least you have the confirming evidence against them now," John said.

Sherlock looked confused, so John repeated himself.

"No, I understand," Sherlock said, "I just hadn't thought about that."


	20. Time 2

A/N: Another on kiwismakemehappy's "time" prompt (unrelated to the last one).

* * *

I hadn't given him enough time. This was too soon after he'd been in war. His left hand still shook sometimes; I should have known not to bring him when there was a possibility of a situation like this. How could I have been so terribly dull?

Another bullet lodged into the wood just above us. I shoved my hand in my pocket and cursed when I came up empty for ammunition. Deciding the gun useless, I threw it as hard as I could over the top of the park bench we were using for cover.

John was lying beside me, one arm wrapped over his head and the other slightly extended, gripping his own gun unyielding. I was about to reach forward and take his gun from him, hoping it might still have bullets in it, when he raised himself to a crouching position. In a rapid burst, he stuck his head and hands out from behind the bench and fired two shots. Just as quickly, he retreated to behind our cover, cocked the gun again, and repeated the process. This time, instead of drawing back behind cover, he paused for a few seconds, and then crawled away out of sight. Shocked, I poked my own head out the other side and saw three bodies on the ground. I stood up dazedly.

John scrambled up from his hands and knees and broke into a run towards the bodies. He squatted down beside the first one he came to and stuck two fingers on the man's neck. He went from body to body, feeling pulses and ripping their clothes into shreds to provide crude tourniquets and bandages. I watched with wide eyes from where I stood by the bench. John yelled something hoarsely at me and I roused myself into dialing 999 dumbly.

When we heard the first sirens start to wail in the nearby street, he fell back into a sitting position and put his head down by his knees, crossing his arms in front of his face.

I would never be able to give him enough time.


	21. Ice Cream

A/N: mischiefmanaged101 gave me the probing little prompt of "Sherlock, John, and ice cream". I spent quite a while puzzling over what to do for this one.  


* * *

John was sick. Sherlock didn't have a case and John was sick. It was that nasty cold virus that infected three quarters of the population of London (barring Sherlock, of course. He wasn't susceptible to such trifles as being ill) every winter.

John took a few days off from work because he was feeling "bloody miserable" and laid on the sofa curled up under a woolen blanket. Sherlock had little to engage himself at the time- a few armchair cases, as he liked to call them, but nothing serious. When he tried to talk to John, John replied in a hoarse few words and turned his face back to the sofa cushions. It was irritating, for occasionally John's conversation was stimulating and now he was just lying there unable to talk.

On the second day that John stayed home, Sherlock went out, bought a tub of ice cream, and brought it back to the flat. He walked over to the sofa and held it out to John. John raised himself up on one elbow and regarded Sherlock with obvious confusion.

"You went to the grocery?" John asked.

"Yes, I bought ice cream."

"But you went to the grocery?"

"Yes."

"Did Mrs. Hudson tell you to?"

"No."

"Is that for me?"

"Yes, John; It is my understanding that cold foods are soothing to the throat affliction you're developed. If that's wrong, I can take it-"

"No, no, it's fine. It's just…you…at the grocery. "

"I did at one point have to provide substance for myself without you."

"Yeah, I suppose you did. Can I have a spoon?"

Sherlock deposited the ice cream on John's lap and went to the kitchen to fish out a relatively clean spoon from the labyrinth of their kitchen. He handed it to John and assumed his perch in his armchair with John's laptop. John ate the ice cream, still with a mildly confused look.


	22. Baboon

_"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."-SPEC

* * *

_Sherlock's cases were always odd. He could not abide with normality, and declined any offers that were not "singular" enough for him. And if they weren't odd, then they were certainly dangerous. Often they were both.

One such case had us crossing a cheetah-and-baboon-infested yard in the dead of night, only to come to a house occupied by a man mortally opposed to us, who had threatened Sherlock only hours before. We spent the night sitting in dead quiet and dark in a room in which a woman had been murdered. By the morning, Sherlock had fought of a venomous snake with a cane and there was a dead man in the bedroom next to us.

* * *

A/N: general zargon suggested 'baboon', and I couldn't help but think of this. I'm afraid it's not exactly funny, like you said, but I hope it's satisfactory anyway :)

The astute reader will notice elements of a certain canon story- and if not, I recommend you read "The Speckled Band".


	23. A Literary Agent

_"'It is wonderful!' I cried. Your merits should be publicly recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for you.' _

_'You may do what you like, Doctor,' he answered."-STUD_

* * *

"Sherlock," John called from the kitchen, "How would you feel about me writing up some of your cases?"

"You already do in that blog of yours," Sherlock drawled from where he was sprawled on the couch.

"No, like in a magazine or book or such. An actual publication. What would you say to that?"

"I would say good luck getting that drivel published."

John flipped the fish he was frying. "Someone's already approached me with the intent of getting it published, thanks. A literary agent, name of Doyle."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Really, it would be good for you," John continued, "Think of the publicity for your agency, not to mention that your merits should be publically recognized."

"You may do what you like, Doctor."

John smiled.

* * *

A/N: Pikeru's Angel suggested "Arthur Conan Doyle" for a prompt. Yes, I am still slowly making my way through your prompts.

There is a Watsonian theory that Arthur Conan Doyle was actually just Watson's literary agent, and he didn't write the Sherlock Holmes stories, but Watson did.


	24. Liquor

"'_Not at all. Drink this!' I dashed some __brandy__ into the water, and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks."-_ _The Engineer's Thumb

* * *

_

Sherlock always said that he did only what he needed to for his work. In his view, this meant higher efficiency and minimum time wasting. In my view, this meant he was severally deficient in several important aspects of culture. Because I knew he had dabbled in drugs (it was hard not to notice, with the syringe I found tucked under a sofa cushion), I'd always just assumed that he'd drunk before. What bloke hadn't had alcohol by his late twenties?

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes.

At the end of one particularly close shave involving a high speed chase through some dark alleyways, I gave him a glass of brandy for the nerves- perhaps an old-fashioned method, but still an effective one.

His face is one I hope never to forget.

* * *

Another of Pikeru's Angel's prompts.


	25. Psychosomatic

He'd thought giving John the upstairs bedroom would be to his advantage. He needed to be close to his experiments and his violin and his skull, and walking up that extra flight of stairs was simply not efficient. It even gave him an excuse to prove John's limp was psychosomatic.

But the floorboards creaked every time John turned over in bed. It seemed the man didn't sleep; he merely flipped and flopped all night. He considered switching rooms, but he still wouldn't be able to sleep, because he'd still _know _that John was flipping and flopping.

The nightmares, unfortunately, weren't psychosomatic.


	26. Worry

Finding phalanges in the freezer annoyed John. Finding skulls on the mantelpiece or the kitchen table or, for pity's sake, his armchair, annoyed John. Finding dangerous, fatal chemicals right alongside the salt and pepper annoyed John. Finding his laptop not where he'd left it annoyed John. Finding that he was falling asleep at work, again, annoyed John. Trying to find criminals at three in the morning annoyed John. Finding the flat an utter mess after he'd just cleaned it that _very_ morning _really_ annoyed John.

Discovering a tiny jar of cocaine on Sherlock's nightstand did far worse- it worried him.

* * *

_"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle."-SIGN_


	27. Taken Care Of

John never did get that ASBO.

He'd been on his way out the door, shrugging on his coat, when Sherlock stopped him.

"No."

John turned and sighed.

"What?"

"You're not going to court," Sherlock drawled, chin perched on his fingertips, eyes fixed on the wallpaper.

"I can't _skip out_ on court, Sherlock. I'd prefer to not get into any more trouble with the law on your account."

"Sit down."

"I don't know if you understand, but-"

"It's taken care of."

"What do you-"

"I mean it's taken care of. No court. Now sit down."

John sat.

Minutely, Sherlock smiled.


	28. Disclosure

_"I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. 'It is both, or none,' said he. 'You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.'"_-SCAN

* * *

I tried not to ever think too hard about what exactly I was doing with my life. When I did, past all the normal bits, like my job at the practice and dates with Sarah and visits to the therapist, there was the constantly confounding reality that I served as a sidekick to a high-functioning-crime-solving-nicotine-addicted sociopath. And that was a thought that served little purpose but to bewilder me.

When I did have the misfortune to think about it, I could hardly believe it. Besides that there was actually an existing job of "consulting detective" and besides the unexplainable fact that I hadn't yet died in some misconstrued chemical experiment and besides the fact that a sociopath would even _want_ a sidekick; what really got me was that I was allowed to be there. Practically. Legally. It was _police_ work. It was a miracle that even Sherlock was allowed to be there. But me, some stray the sociopath had picked up? Why should I be allowed to be there?

I wasn't, it turned out, at least not all the time. Sherlock got a case, a high-up one, a properly royal case from the prime minister of some country on the continent (I never did find out exactly where).

I was updating my blog and Sherlock sitting in his robe and pajamas on the settee plucking diminished minor chords on his violin one morning when the man climbed the stairs to the sitting room, looking more than a little pompous. Sherlock stood up and waved him in with a flourish of his robe. The man took a seat, smoothing his lapels. Sherlock sat across from him in the basket chair, his legs under him. I closed the computer.

"Mr. Holmes, I trust-"

"Please," said Sherlock, "Start from the beginning." He closed his eyes and rested his chin on his fingertips.

"Mr. Holmes. I am not in a position to disclose this information with simply anyone listening on."

Sherlock's eyes flickered open in confusion. He glanced around the room. "Oh, you mean John. I can assure you he is absolutely trustworthy."

"Regardless of affirmations of trustworthiness, Mr. Holmes, this information is more than confidential. I hardly know anything about you, save for a recommendation."

"Yes, I'm sure Mycroft sends his best." Sherlock drawled.

I stood. "I can leave."

"Do sit down."

I sat.

"Mr. Holmes, I cannot-"

I stood.

"If you cannot bear to disclose information to me while my partner is in the room, please do not ordain to disclose information to me at all. John, sit."

I sat.

"Really, Mr. Holmes-"

I raised myself halfway out the chair.

"Sherlock, I don't mind."

"John, _sit down_. Mr. Carter, thank you for your interest. However, I refuse to take on your case if you cannot agree to my terms."

The sitting room door slammed and the man stomped down the stairs. Sherlock leant back and resumed plucking his violin.

"Brother Mycroft will be ever so happy."

"Sherlock, you didn't need to send him off like that. I could have gone out."

"Don't be stupid, John. Of course our-" he faltered, minutely, as if he were going to say something else, "-partnership comes before a case from an old fogey Mycroft sent over.

I looked up, trying not to seem too surprised.

"Besides," said Sherlock, "what do I want with a case preventing the outbreak of war throughout the whole of Europe?"


	29. Tidying Up

"_Holmes was not a difficult man to live with."- STUD_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to live with. He never cleaned, he never shopped, and God forbid he put his mug in the sink once in a while. Not to mention the bullet holes in the wall and the violin at ungodly hours and the pieces of human in the icebox. If I'd had any sense, I would have walked out the minute I saw all his things sprawled around the sitting room when we first looked at the flat. His offer to "tidy things up" that day was the first and last time he ever uttered those words, much less put them to use.

But I have only to think back on that horrible, drab little room, the endless days and haunted nights, to realize that there is no man with whom I would rather live.


	30. Fear

"_I read an inexorable purpose in [Professor Moriarty's] gray eyes."-EMPT_

* * *

He thought that the first time he'd ever experienced fear was that night on the moor with Henry Knight.

But that wasn't real fear. He didn't feel his stomach clench and his throat close in and the world drop from beneath his feet. What he felt on the moor was anxiety, or frustration, something trivial.

It wasn't until the rooftop, when everyone he cared for (don't be stupid, of course he cared for _some _people [not that he would ever admit it]) would die. He didn't really know fear until Moriarty thrust the gun into his own mouth and fired.


	31. Closure

A/N: Spoilers for S3E01 "The Empty Hearse"

_"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."- EMPT_

* * *

Sure, he'd laughed at Sherlock's stupid snide remark about how killing him was "so two years ago," yeah, whatever. He was allowed to laugh; he'd almost just been blown to pieces. And his laughing didn't mean that he wasn't still well pissed at Sherlock, even after the bomb had been defused. The man had pretended to be dead for three years and then showed up _while John was attempting to propose _with a marker-drawn mustache. Yeah, still pissed

It wasn't until later, when he'd calmed down enough to think back about the two and half minutes on the train, that he realized what had happened, what Sherlock didn't want him to see, what Sherlock was covering up with his asinine little "joke": Sherlock had apologized. He had truly, _genuinely_ apologized, croaking out a deep and hoarse and quiet "I'm sorry." He would have known that there was an off switch the whole time—he'd called the police, hadn't he? He was acting when he was pulling the prank, but the apology was real. Sherlock had contrived the whole situation just so that he could give John a heartfelt apology, but, in typical Sherlock fashion, he didn't want John to recognize what was happening. He didn't think John would notice.

But now, John was the one with the upper hand. He'd heard the quiver in Sherlock's voice, and this time, John was going to be the one who knew something that Sherlock didn't.


End file.
